Page 146 of Maksym

The kiss was not consuming. He did not take it in order to prove he could. He pressed his mouth to mine with a steadiness that asked nothing more than to be met.

I met him.

For a few breaths, there was no hearing in Chicago, no Elder Council, no Lucian Devereux dragging his rot across the edge of our morning, which was in reality, dusk. There was only Maksym’s hand on my cheek, my fingers closing once in the lapel of his suit, and the startling knowledge that desire could remain present without demanding immediate obedience.

He drew back first. Not far.

His thumb moved once beneath my cheekbone. “If anything becomes too much today—”

“I’ll say so.”

“When you’re ready, meet me in the war room. Tilden will show you the way.”

“Of course you have a war room.”

“Of course we do.” He answered as he walked out the door.

Tilden waited outside the suite as if he had known precisely when I’d arrive.

He stood in the corridor with his hands folded, posture immaculate, expression composed in a way that made me suspect he actually enjoyed the prospect of escorting me through the estate.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head. “The war room is prepared.”

I had the immediate, irrational urge to ask whether the war room also had pastries, because in this house those two things did not seem mutually exclusive. But Tilden turned with such flawless timing that the question stayed in my mouth.

I followed him down the corridor.

Tilden moved ahead at a pace that made hurrying seem vulgar.

At the base of the stairs, he led me away from the public grandeur of the entry and down a hall I had not noticed before. The air cooled by degrees. The stone walls here felt older, less polished, their carvings less decorative and more warning. Vines became thorns. Birds became winged things with claws. Human faces hid among leaves with expressions that suggested they had learned something and regretted it.

We stopped before a pair of double doors.

They were carved from dark wood, nearly black with age, and bound in iron. Not decorative iron. Functional. The handles were shaped like beasts’ heads, mouths open around heavy rings.

Tilden opened the doors.

The war room waited.

It did not read like a conference room, though a lesser family might have tried to make one of it. No glass walls. No whiteboard. No ergonomic chairs selected by committee to encourage collaborative productivity. This room had survived over a century of decisions that likely ended with borders moving and bodies cooling.

A battered square wooden table dominated the center.

Its surface was scarred with old burns, blade marks, gouges, and darker stains I chose not to analyze before coffee. The table did not look antique in the decorative sense. It looked used. A thing men and women had leaned over while deciding who lived long enough to regret something.

Stone walls rose around us, broken by iron sconces and faded tactical maps. Some maps showed territories I knew by modern names. Others belonged to older arrangements of power—kingdoms, mountain passes, rivers marked as borders, cities inked in languages I could not read. Pins remained in a few, their metal heads dulled with age.

Every flat surface held weapons.

Medieval swords rested on brackets above credenzas. Daggers lay in velvet-lined trays. Long knives with curved blades caught the light from sconces and returned it grudgingly. There were instruments I could not name: hooked metal pieces, slender rods inscribed with symbols, small black boxes banded in silver, and a spearhead displayed alone beneath glass as if the shaft had been unnecessary for it to remain dangerous.

Some of the weapons bore faint markings etched into hilts and blades.

Not decoration.

Nikolay sat on the far side of the table, broad hands folded before him, expression grave but warm when his eyes met mine. To his right sat Taras, silver-haired and precise, a stack of documents arranged before him at angles exact. Remy occupied the chair nearer the door, one long leg crossed over the other, designer slacks immaculate, heels sharp enough to qualify as weapons in a pinch. Her curls had been swept up into a loose knot, and gold hoops caught the light when she turned her head.

Maksym sat at the head of the table.